by Ondjaki
“i knew the great day would arrive... Dona Creusa, bring us the appropriate glasses for this liquid”
“yes, Senhor Minister”
“are you having champagne, Advisor, or something else?”
“i’m having something else, Senhor Minister, don’t be offended, but our national drink is the best remedy to ward off bodily ailments,” the Advisor said, opening his bottle of thirty-year-old whisky, “this whisky... to tell the truth, it makes me choke up”
“choke up?” Dom Crystal-Clear asked
“choke up completely, Senhor Crystal-Clear, take a good look at this beauty,” and he grabbed the box, pulling from inside it a bottle and various printed contents, “have you ever seen a whisky that came with a dictionary? whoah, the stuff those whites come up with!”
the buddies laughed, the champagne glasses arrived, the bottle was opened
“to our little national geyser, the most difficult of all petroleums”
“to the most difficult!” the Minister toasted
the Advisor’s two tax inspectors, This Time and Next Time, were invited to the celebration, as was the serene Dona Creusa, beneath the disapproving eye of the Advisor, who was not in the habit of sharing drinks or toasts with his subordinates
“let’s make an exception in honour of this event,” the Advisor murmured, then said in a low voice, “Dona Creusa, this ice is a disaster, i’ve been waiting five minutes for the whisky to cool down”
“don’t you want to try the champagne, Senhor Advisor? it’s really cold”
“don’t meddle in political issues of a liquid nature, Senhora Civil Servant, just because you got a lift with Dom Crystal-Clear now you think you can weigh in on the temperatures of the leaders’ whisky?”
“i’m sorry, Senhor Advisor, it was just a suggestion”
“then i suggest a whole lot more planning to get an icier ice cube, this one’s an embarrassment to the Senhor Minister’s office”
“yes, Senhor Advisor”
the tax inspectors accepted and redoubled their appreciation of good champagne, not understanding in the least what this celebration was about, but according to Luandan logic a series of toasts involving a French drink in the company of a Minister did not need to be questioned
“and that chore i assigned you, was it successfully completed?” the Advisor felt good speaking out loud about work in the Minister’s presence
“yes, Senhor Advisor, it was duly completed”
“what is the practical outcome?”
“up to now, we’ve assembled fifteen new dates”
“only fifteen?”
“we only went to the major embassies, Senhor Advisor, we still haven’t visited the consulates and other diplomatic delegations”
“look, get it done, the cabinet ministers’ meeting is only a week away”
“yes, Senhor Advisor”
“what mission was this?” Dom Crystal-Clear asked in a serious voice
“pragmatic data for a new proposal to cabinet based on my personal advice to the Senhor Minister”
“about what?”
“the national adoption of ‘solidarity holidays’”
“what?”
“Angola must adopt a position of greater solidarity with influential countries as well as with the so-called emerging countries”
“what do holidays have to do with it?”
“i asked the comrade tax inspectors to make a list of other nations’ most important holidays, and we’re going to try to get the cabinet to approve a plan of adopting the pertinent dates”
“to be holidays here?”
“exactly, Senhor Crystal-Clear, exactly! here in Angola we work too much”
“i understand,” Dom Crystal-Clear discontinued
“for that reason, we’re going to have new holidays to consider, or even to see if we introduce new dates to support three-day weekends, without losing the weekend perspective”
“the weekend perspective?”
“yes, maintaining the official position of delaying until Monday any holiday that falls on a Sunday and also, within the scope of the country’s national reconstruction, a new philosophy for three-day weekends”
“three-day weekends?” the Minister, also, was unaware of the stringency of the Advisor’s planning
“mandatory three-day weekends, that is, a holiday that falls on a Thursday is a three-day weekend! a weekend that goes on until Monday, if it’s a really, really important holiday, let’s say, for example, a friendly power’s independence day, let’s imagine Mozambique, if it falls on a Wednesday, we declare an extended three-day weekend, by automatic decree, the Thursday and Friday working days are cancelled, and you only go back to work on Monday, or even, with a certain amount of respectful tolerance, on Monday afternoon, that’s to say very nearly on Tuesday morning!” the Advisor served himself another whisky, “but fifteen holidays strikes me as not being enough, because, after all, the year has three hundred sixty-five days, not counting leap years”
“can i try this whisky, Senhor Advisor?” This Time asked
“are you crazy or something?” the Advisor grew serious, crinkling his eyebrows in a manoeuvre that was nearly physically impossible, “you think you’re old enough to drink whisky that comes with a dictionary? are you of age? you young guys really like to push it”
“i’m sorry, Senhor Advisor”
“even if you’d come up with more holidays... you guys have got to be smart about this, it’s not just following the lead of powerful countries like the United States, it’s also looking at the others, for example, Burma or Cambodia, the Kosovos, the Chechnyas, those places that have massacres and complicated histories, those are the ones that deliver good holidays, you get it?”
“yes, Senhor Advisor”
“you’ve got to take into account religious holidays, historical data, the deaths of historical leaders, the Gandhis, the African leaders, even if they’re from past centuries, are you listening to me?”
“yes, Senhor Advisor”
“read up on it, boys, do some research, even if it’s on the internet... when did the great Shaka Zulu die? isn’t there any information out there? was it more than a month ago? if there aren’t any facts, Angola could even make a contribution as the first country to celebrate, with a holiday, of course, this trivia of Humanity, you get the picture, boys?”
“yes, Senhor Advisor”
“be clever about it... we’ve got the Irelands, with bombing makas, the Spains, with separatist makas, the Palestines, look, Palestine alone is a holiday gold mine... the Indians massacred by the Spaniards... the Americans’ Indians, as well, the others... ay, what are they called...? those Mayans, all those people should be considered, the First World War, the Second World War, the Cold War, journeys to the moon, the first journey, the second journey, and the frustrated attempts? why doesn’t anybody talk about those? the question isn’t just who got there... it’s who didn’t get there? how did they die? those are the kinds of facts we want”
“yes, Senhor Advisor, we’ll deal with that”
“then get going! you should’ve already left... use your heads, boys, your heads, don’t forget the Middle East or the Far East, either, or even the distant past, the Romes and the Greeces... Europe is full of massacres, it’s necessary to remind those guys that they were barbarians! go take care of that... and that’s without talking about papal issues...”
“are you guys going to the speech today, late this afternoon?” Dom Crystal-Clear interrupted, containing his laughter
“today?” the Advisor served himself another whisky and looked irritated at its lack of ice
“yes, the President is going to speak, he’s going to make a speech”
“on the radio?”
“live”
“that’s why there w
as so much security on the streets today...”
“that’s why, he’s going to speak, i’m guessing about the latest events, he also has to give an explanation to the international community, it seems they were furious about the cancellation of the eclipse”
“the international community are a bunch of drama queens,” the Minister said.
when he opened the box, the man’s hands danced beneath the light of the many oil lamps set up in the room, he first read the instructions meticulously, in spite of having read them already on the computer
his were delicate hands, fingering pages, shuffling sheets, checking the little plastic bags contained in the opened boxes, the fingers’ movements tuned the light’s intensity, then sought the glass
the glass close to the lips, the breath of dry whisky, the glass returned to the table
there was a deep silence, something that had come from far away, farther away than the city’s borders, an unusual silence—a warm cloak, so that following the right interior frequency, people could seek and find secrets residing at that dense silence’s core
the silence
the hands opening the box
his fingers did not betray the days of waiting, the last box had finally arrived to complete the puzzle
he had decided shortly before to put together the weapon only when the last part of his secret arrived, he’d made a thorough investigation, he’d awaited delivery of the parts at unlikely addresses and under false names
the scent of newness, the dull glow beneath the weak light of the oil lamps, the scent of the oil close to the cacti in his apartment, the books, the carpets, the endless dust, his clean fingers, whose shaking didn’t betray the impatience of his gestures or the anxiety of his waiting
twelve boxes, twelve months, now his destiny was unavoidable
each order was a letter, written to fate, or to himself, announcing fragments of a deadline, or a task to be completed
the hours, the research, the dreams, the fears, the certainties: a man is made of what he plans
«a man is made of truth and urgency» he thought
“Paulo!” Clara shouted in a tearful voice from outside the door, “open the door, Paulo, please, i know you’re in there”
but the journalist was moving in another dimension, he didn’t let the sounds from the street disturb him, he had closed the windows in the early afternoon, lighted the lamps after filling them with oil, he had left only a small aperture the width of his weapon’s barrel and his line of sight, all afternoon he had monitored the increased security on the streets, observed the operation of setting up the stage where the President would speak to the nation, and had taken care to leave an identical scratch of light in another window in case the vehicles took a different route
“Paulo, open the door, i just want to talk to you... i just want to talk to you, Paulo... speak to me, what are you doing locked in there?”
he lifted a piece of velvet to his mouth, touched his tongue and recognized the odour of whisky, then lifted the cloth to the long pipe, washed the oblong piece of metal an infinite number of times, the scents of whisky and the burnt lamp oil hanging in the air, and with the dry part of the velvet cloth the journalist washed the front glass of the telescopic sight and laid the cloth on the kitchen table
next to the window, he wiped his sweaty right hand on his bluejeans, glanced at his bare feet, shook his fingers, cracking his knuckles, and took a deep breath, the sirens of the Presidential retinue were audible in the distance, he got his weapon ready, his chin touched the cold metal and the wooden stock, he became calm but continued breathing deeply, the woman’s weepy voice outside the door was bothering him, thousands of flags were waving in the square where the people awaited the arrival of the Comrade President, a few balloons, yellow, black, and scarlet, were released from uplifted hands and flew upwards to the heavens
“the door’s barred?” Hoffman asked, panting, after climbing five floors
“he’s in there, Arriscado, i know he’s in there,” Clara wept
“i came as fast as i could, what’s going on? did you call his cell?”
“he’s not answering, he won’t open the door, he won’t talk to me... he was all weird this morning, with that spaced-out look”
“and what’s that smell?”
“i don’t know, it could be oil lamps”
“but the electricity’s on in the building,” Hoffman moved the woman away from the door and struck it with force, “Paulo, Paulo, you there?”
the sirens grew louder, the motorcycle outriders travelling ahead of the Presidential vehicle arrived, the crowd was in an uproar of alcoholic euphoria, the bodyguards rushed to set up the security corridor, vehicles with smoked-glass windshields approached and from one of them emerged the figure of His Excellency and Engineer Comrade President, who waved to the population and smiled, from the opposite door his spouse stepped out, waved to the population, smiled
the President took his first steps towards of the rostrum decorated with ribbons, flags, and flowers, moving, after having greeted a few of the leaders, to where a confused mass of microphones had been set up for his arrival
the crowd was shouting, the sound reaching the building as a blending of voices, chants, and human roars
“Paulo, for fuck’s sake, open the door,” Scratch Man, angry, was kicking at it
the journalist, his body draped over the weapon and his weight spread across the table, observed other leaders through the rifle’s sight, moved from face to face, distracting himself with thoughts of the very real possibility of striking each of them, laid his finger very lightly on the trigger, felt the sweat pour down his face to his arm, he didn’t move, he didn’t get excited, he didn’t worry about the shouts or the kicks at the door of his apartment, the President smiled as he reached the microphones, camera flashes rained down on him and the music grew softer as the President waved to the population with a gesture that announced the beginning of his speech
“get out of the way, i’m gonna break down the door,” Hoffman said
a large bundle of balloons was released on either side of the stage and the population responded with a fresh ovation, the President smiled, the Ministers smiled, Dom Crystal-Clear smiled, observed the brightly coloured balloons rising into the heavens, and the crowd, there to listen to the nation’s leader, naturally returned to its silence
“dear citizens, as was announced earlier by the national organs of the press,” the President began, “early yesterday morning Luanda finally witnessed the first oil geyser to be discovered beneath the soil of this city”
the multitude roared, clapping their hands
the tip of the weapon’s barrel wavered slightly, tapping against the window, the journalist reset his position with both hands, laid his finger on the trigger, leaving the decision as to when to fire at the mercy of this gesture
“all comrades of the Commission for the Installation of Recoverable Oil in Luanda, also known among you as the ‘cirollers,’ are to be congratulated... the government is to be congratulated for the work undertaken so far, our city is to be congratulated... long live the oil already discovered in Luan— ”
a sudden darkness, preceded by a low, intensely muffled sound—the sensation of receiving a shot in the forehead
beneath out-of-control shouts and the chaotic surge of human motion, feet trampled other feet and nearby bodies, the shot set off a generalized confusion but the soldiers were well trained and the evacuation was prompt, the first lady was carried away to a vehicle parked behind the rostrum, the President’s head was immediately covered by the hands and bodies of countless body guards
and he was carried to a separate vehicle
without another shot being heard.
Hoffman wrecked his shoulder but the door yielded on his third attempt
the colonel came to an immediat
e halt in the living room, he abruptly extended his arm to prevent Clara from moving forward, hugged the journalist’s girlfriend and she fell against her friend’s chest, a ribbon of thick blood from Paulo’s forehead seeped from the kitchen, passed the side of the weapon, his outflung arm on the floor, reached the wall and turned slowly in the direction of the colonel, who did not have time to withdraw his foot
“let’s get out of here,” Hoffman said
“no!” Clara shouted, “i want to see Paulo”
“let’s get out of here, Clara!”
they rushed down two flights of stairs and were intercepted by the President’s security which, heavily armed, had invaded the building and detained along the way the inhabitants who liked to grill fish on the staircases as well as a doctor who said that he was answering an emergency call from a woman called Clara
“doctor... Paulo... Paulo’s up there in the kitchen”
“shut your mouth,” one of the guards, dragged her brutally downstairs
“what happened?” the doctor asked
“we don’t know for sure,” Scratch Man said
they were taken away by a special security unit, National Radio immediately began playing music without having broadcast the six o’clock news
in London, the BBC reported that there had been an assassination attempt on the President of Angola, confirming simultaneously that the head of state was alive and that everything was in a state of great disorder, as a matter of fact, the young woman journalist commented live from the site of the interrupted rally, the lone shot had emerged from very close to her location and had been taken by a sniper from the Presidential guard, though the true course of events remained unclear
“Clara,” the doctor whispered, “had he taken his pills?”
“i don’t think so...” Clara was crying, her wrists hurting from the handcuffs and her eyes burning with tears, “i don’t think so...”
“what pills?” Hoffman asked
Clara looked at the city streets, the potholes, the flags, the balloons gripped in the hands of children who were fleeing from the rapid passage of cars from the President’s security detail, thinking, perhaps, that there, comfortably seated, was the Comrade President