A General Theory of Oblivion

by Jose Eduardo Agualusa

  “What’s happened?”

  “Take it easy, ma’am, we just want the stones.”

  “The stones?”

  “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Give us your jewels and I give you my word of honor we’ll leave you in peace. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Not to you or to your sister. The two of you can go back to the big city on the next plane if that’s what you want.”

  “What have you done with Odete and my brother-in-law?”

  “The old man has been behaving irresponsibly. There are some people who mistake stupidity for courage. I’m an officer in the Portuguese army and I don’t like people trying to trick me.”

  “What have you done with her? What have you done with my sister?”

  “We don’t have much time. This can end well or it can end badly.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, I swear I don’t know …”

  “Look, you wanna see your sister again? Keep nice and quiet at home, don’t try to tell anyone. As soon as things have calmed down a bit, we’ll come by your apartment to fetch the stones. You hand over the package and we’ll release Miss Odete.”

  He said this and hung up. Night fell. Bullet lines streaked across the sky. Explosions shook the windowpanes. Phantom hid behind one of the sofas. He was whimpering quietly. Ludo felt dizziness, agony. She ran to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet, then sat down on the floor, trembling. As soon as she had recovered her strength, she went straight over to Orlando’s study, which she entered only once every five days to dust and sweep the floor. The engineer was very proud of his desk, a solemn, fragile piece of furniture, which he had bought from a Portuguese antique dealer. Ludo tried to open the first drawer. She couldn’t do it. She went to fetch a hammer and split it open in three furious blows. She found a pornographic magazine. She pushed it aside, disgusted, only to find a wad of hundred dollar bills beneath it, and a pistol. She held the gun with both hands. She felt its weight. She stroked it. This was what men used to kill each other. A dense, dark instrument, almost alive. She turned the apartment upside down. She found nothing. Finally she stretched out on one of the living-room sofas and fell asleep. She awoke with a start. Phantom was tugging at her skirt. He was growling. A sea breeze gently lifted the fine lace curtains. There were stars floating in the void. The silence amplified the darkness. A wave of voices was coming up the corridor. Ludo got up, and she walked, barefoot, to the front door and looked through the spy-hole. Outside, by the elevators, there were three men arguing in low voices. One of them pointed toward her – toward the door – with a crowbar:

  “A dog, I’m sure of it. I heard a dog barking.”

  “What are you talking about, Minguito?” he was challenged by a tiny, very thin man dressed in a military dolman that was too wide and too long: “There’s nobody here. The settlers have gone. Go on. Knock that piece of shit down.”

  Minguito walked up. Ludo stepped back. She heard the blow and, without stopping to think, she returned it, a violent blow against the wood that left her breathless. Silence. Then a shout:

  “Who’s there?”

  “Go away.”

  Laughter. The same voice:

  “There’s one left behind! What’s up, Ma, did they forget you?”

  “Please, go away.”

  “Open the door, Ma. We only want what belongs to us. You people have been stealing from us for five hundred years. We’ve come to take what is ours.”

  “I have a gun. Nobody’s coming in.”

  “Lady, just take it easy. You give us your jewels, a bit of money, and we’ll leave. We’ve got mothers too.”

  “No. I’m not opening up.”

  “OK, Minguito, knock it down.”

  Ludo ran to Orlando’s study. She grabbed the pistol, walked over and pointed it at the front door, and squeezed the trigger. She would remember the moment of the gunshot day after day for the next thirty-five years. The bang, the slight jump of the gun. The quick pain in her wrist.

  What would her life have been like without that one moment?

  “Argh, I’m bleeding. Ma, you’ve killed me.”

  “Trinitá! Pal, are you hurt?”

  “Get out of here, move it …”

  Gunshots out in the street, very close. Shots attract other shots. Fire a bullet in the air and it will soon be joined by dozens of others. In a country in a state of war any bang is enough. A faulty car exhaust. A rocket. Anything. Ludo went over to the door. She saw the hole made by the bullet. She put her ear to the wood. She heard the muted gasping of the wounded man:

  “Water, Ma. Help me …”

  “I can’t. I can’t.”

  “Please, lady. I’m dying.”

  The woman opened the door, shaking badly, never releasing her grip on the pistol. The burglar was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. Were it not for the thick, black beard, he might have been taken for a child. A childlike little face, covered in sweat, with big eyes that gazed at her without any bitterness:

  “Such bad luck, such bad luck, I’m not going to see Independence.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

  “Water, I’m so terribly thirsty.”

  Ludo threw a frightened glance down the corridor.

  “Come inside. I can’t leave you here.”

  The man dragged himself in, groaning. He moved across the floor, leaving behind a second shadow on the wall. One darkness unsticking itself from another. Ludo stepped in that shadow with her bare feet and slipped.

  “Oh, God!”

  “I’m sorry, Grandma. I’m making a mess of your house.”

  Ludo closed the door. She locked it. She headed for the kitchen, took some cold water from the fridge, filled a glass, and returned to the living room. The man drank greedily.

  “What I really need is just a little glass of fresh air.”

  “I have to call a doctor.”

  “It’s not worth it. They’d kill me anyway. Sing me a song, Grandma?”

  “What?”

  “Sing. Sing me a song, something soft like cotton wool.”

  Ludo thought of her father, humming popular old ditties from Rio de Janeiro to put her to sleep. She put the pistol down on the floorboards, knelt down, took the burglar’s tiny hands in hers, brought her mouth close to his ear, and sang.

  She sang for a long time.

  No sooner had the dawn light woken the house than Ludo summoned all her courage, gathered the dead man in her arms, without too much effort, and carried him out to the terrace. She went to fetch a shovel. She dug a narrow grave in one of the flowerbeds, amid the yellow roses.

  Months earlier, Orlando had started to build a small swimming pool on the terrace. The war had stopped the work. The workers had left bags of cement, sand, bricks, leaning against the walls. The woman dragged down some of the material. She unlocked the front door. She went out. She began to build a wall, in the hallway, cutting off the apartment from the rest of the building. She spent the whole morning doing it. It was not until the wall was ready, once she had smoothed down the cement, that she felt hungry and thirsty. She sat at the kitchen table, heated up some soup and ate slowly. She gave some leftover roast chicken to the dog:

  “Now it’s just you and me.”

  The animal came over and licked her fingers.

  The blood had dried by the front door, forming a dark stain. There were footprints leading from there to the kitchen. Phantom licked them. Ludo pushed him away. She went to fetch a bucket with water, soap, a brush, and she cleaned it all up. Then she took a hot shower. As she was stepping out of the tub the phone rang. She answered:

  “Things got complicated. We weren’t able to come by yesterday to collect the goods. We’ll be coming over soon.”

  Ludo put down the phone without answering. It rang again. Then it let up for a moment, but as soon as the woman had turned her back it resumed its shrieking, nervously insisting on her attention. Phantom came out of the kitchen. He began to run in circl
es, barking fiercely at each jingling noise. Suddenly he jumped onto the table, knocking over the handset. The fall was violent. Ludo shook the black box. Something inside had come loose. She smiled:

  “Thank you, Phantom. I don’t think this will be bothering us anymore.”

  Outside, in the turbulent night, rockets and mortars exploded. Cars were hooting their horns. Looking out the window, the Portuguese woman saw the crowd making its way along the roads, filling the squares with an urgent, desperate euphoria. She shut herself in her room. She stretched out on the bed. She buried her face in the pillow. She tried to imagine herself very far away, in the safety of her old house in Aveiro, watching old movies on television while sipping tea and crunching on pieces of toast. She couldn’t do it.

  Soldiers Without Fortune

  The two men were struggling to hide their nerves. They had thin beards and long, disheveled hair. They wore brightly colored shirts, bell-bottom trousers, and jackboots. Benjamin, the younger one, was whistling loudly as he drove. Jeremias – Carrasco – was sitting beside him, chewing on a cigar. They passed flatbed trucks transporting soldiers. The young men waved to them, drowsily, making a V for victory sign. The two men responded the same way.

  “Cubans!” growled Jeremias. “Damn communists.”

  They parked the car outside the Prédio dos Invejados and got out. A beggar was blocking the entrance.

  “Morning, comrades.”

  “And what the hell do you want?” Jeremias scolded him. “You’ve come to the white men to ask for money? Those days are over. In an independent Angola, in the front line of socialism in Africa, there’s no place for beggars. Beggars get their heads cut off.”

  He shoved him aside and went into the building. Benjamin followed him. They called the elevator and rode it up to the eleventh floor. They found themselves, to their surprise, being stopped short by the recently built wall:

  “What the hell? This country’s gone mad!”

  “Is this really the place? Are you sure?”

  “You’re asking me if I’m sure?” Jeremias smiled. He pointed at the door opposite. “Here, in 11-E, this is where Ritinha lived. Best legs in Luanda. Finest ass. You’re lucky you never met Ritinha. Any man who met her could never look at another woman without a vague feeling of disappointment and bitterness. Like the African sky. If they make me leave this place, God, where would I go?”

  “I understand, Captain. What should we do?”

  “We’ll fetch a pickax and break through the wall.”

  They returned to the elevator and went back down. The beggar was waiting for them, accompanied by five armed men.

  “Those are the ones, Comrade Monte.”

  The man called Monte stepped forward. He addressed Jeremias in a voice that was certain, powerful, that contrasted with the leanness of his body:

  “Would you mind rolling up the sleeve of your shirt, comrade? Yes, your right shirtsleeve. I want to see your wrist …”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because I’m asking you nicely, all polite like a perfumer.”

  Jeremias laughed. He pulled back his shirtsleeve to reveal a tattoo: Audaces Fortuna Juvat.

  “You wanted to see this?”

  “Just that, Captain. Seems your luck has run out. Also, I do feel that two white men out on the street in these troubled days wearing Portuguese army boots seems a little too bold.”

  He turned to two of the armed men and ordered them to fetch some rope to tie up the Portuguese mercenaries. They tied their hands behind their backs and pushed them into a very beat-up Toyota Corolla. One of the men rode shotgun. Monte at the wheel. The others followed behind in a military jeep. Benjamin dropped his head between his knees, unable to hold back the tears. Jeremias was annoyed, and nudged him with his shoulder:

  “Take it easy. You’re a Portuguese soldier.”

  Monte butted in:

  “Leave the kid alone. You shouldn’t have brought him to our country. As for you, sir, you are no more than a whore in the pay of American imperialism. You ought to be ashamed.”

  “And what about the Cubans, aren’t they mercenaries too?”

  “Our Cuban companions didn’t come over to Angola for the money. They came because of their convictions.”

  “And I stayed in Angola because of my convictions. I’m fighting for western civilization, against Soviet imperialism. I’m fighting for Portugal’s survival.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t believe that. You don’t believe that, even your mother wouldn’t believe that. Talking of which, what were you doing in Rita’s building?”

  “Wait, you know Rita?”

  “Rita Costa Reis? Ritinha? Great legs. Best legs in Luanda.”

  They chatted happily about Angolan women. Jeremias did fancy the Luandan ones; however, he added, there wasn’t a woman in the world who could match the mulatta women of Benguela. Then Monte recalled Riquita Bauleth, born into one of the oldest families in Moçâmedes, named Miss Portugal in 1971. Jeremias concurred. Yes, Riquita, he would give his life just to be able to wake up one morning in the light of those dark eyes. The man sitting beside Monte interrupted the conversation.

  “This is the place, commander. We’re here.”

  They had left the city behind. A high wall marked out a wide, open area. Baobab trees at the far end and then a spotless blue horizon. They got out of the car. Monte untied the two mercenaries. He straightened up:

  “Captain Jeremias Carrasco. Carrasco, as in ‘executioner’? Well, I’m assuming that’s got to be a nickname. You are guilty of countless atrocities. You tortured and murdered dozens of Angolan nationalists. Some of our comrades would like to see you in a courtroom. But I don’t think we ought to be wasting our time with trials. The people have found you guilty already.”

  Jeremias smiled:

  “The people? Bullshit. I don’t believe that. You don’t believe that, even your mother wouldn’t believe that. Let us go free and I’ll give you a fistful of diamonds. Good stones. You can leave this place and make a new life anywhere else. You’ll be able to get any woman you want.”

  “Thank you. I have no intention of leaving, and the only woman I want I’ve got at home. Have a good journey and enjoy yourself, that place where you’re going.”

  Monte walked back over to the car. The soldiers pushed the Portuguese men up against the wall. They took a few steps back. One of them pulled a pistol from his belt, and in a movement that was almost absentminded, almost annoyed, he pointed it and fired three times. Jeremias Carrasco was lying on his back. He saw the birds flying in the high skies. He noticed an inscription in red ink on the bloodstained, bullet-pocked wall:

  The struggle continues.

  The Substance of Fear

  I’m afraid of what’s outside the window, of the air that arrives in bursts, and the noise it brings with it. I am scared of mosquitos, the myriad of insects I don’t know how to name. I am foreign to everything, like a bird that has fallen into the current of a river. I don’t understand the languages I hear outside, the languages the radio brings into the house, I don’t understand what they’re saying, not even when they sound like they’re speaking Portuguese, because this Portuguese they are speaking is no longer mine.

  Even the light seems strange to me.

  Too much light.

  Certain colors ought not to occur in a healthy sky.

  I am closer to my dog than to those people out there.

  After the End

  After the end, time slowed down. At least that was how it seemed to Ludo. On February 23 she wrote in the first of her diaries:

  Nothing happened today. I slept.

  While asleep I dreamed that I was sleeping.

  Trees, little animals, a multitude of insects were sharing their dreams with me. There we all were, dreaming in chorus, like a crowd, in a tiny room, exchanging ideas and smells and caresses. I remember I was a spider advancing toward its prey and the fly caught in the web of that spider. I felt flowers bloss
oming in the sun, breezes carrying pollen. I awoke and was alone. If, while we are asleep, we can dream of sleeping, can we then, when awake, awaken within a more lucid reality?

  One morning, she got up, turned on the tap and the water didn’t come out. She was scared. It occurred to her for the first time that she might spend long years shut away in the apartment. She took an inventory of what was in the pantry. She wouldn’t need to worry about the salt. She also found enough flour for several months, as well as bags and bags of beans, packets of sugar, cases of wine and soft drinks, dozens of tins of sardines, tuna, and sausages.

  That night it rained. Ludo opened an umbrella and went up onto the terrace, carrying empty bottles, buckets, and basins. Early in the morning she cut the bougainvillea and the ornamental flowers. She put a handful of lemon seeds in the flowerbed where she had buried the tiny burglar. Four other flowerbeds she used for sowing corn and beans. In another five, she planted her last remaining potatoes. One of the banana trees had borne a huge bunch. She pulled off a few bananas and carried them to the kitchen. She showed them to Phantom.

  “See? Orlando planted the banana trees so they would produce memories. They’re going to stop us going hungry. Or rather, they’ll stop me going hungry, I can’t imagine you’re too keen on bananas.”

  The next day, the water was back in the taps. From then on it would often fail, as would the electricity, till finally it went for good. In the first few weeks, the blackouts were more of a problem than the interruptions to the water supply. She missed the radio. She used to like listening to the international news bulletins on the BBC and Rádio Difusão Portuguesa. She would listen to the Angolan stations, too, even if the constant speeches against colonialism, neocolonialism, and the reactionary forces annoyed her. The radio was a magnificent piece of equipment, in a wooden casing, art deco style, with ivory buttons. Press one of the buttons and it would light up like a city. Ludo would turn the knobs in search of voices. Fragments of sentences would come to her in French, English, or some obscure African language: