Ondjaki - Granma Nineteen and the Soviet's Secret

“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 staring at him. He came in slowly and spent a long time cleaning his dust-laden boots.