Ondjaki - Granma Nineteen and the Soviet's Secret

“What do you mean, too bad? Are you crazy? If somebody dies we’re going straight to a war zone in a plane that’ll take us away in the middle of the night without waiting for morning.”

“Jeeze, will you stop that! Nobody knows anything and nobody sleeps at the construction site.”

“And what if the body of the Comrade President is there?”

“You really think so? They’re only going to bring the body on the day of the inauguration. They’re not gonna leave an embalmed corpse to sleep in that darkness with all the dust from the construction.”

“And all the birds?”

“The birds — too bad! They may just take off.”

“How? Poor little things.”

“Maybe the cages’ll burst open and they’ll be able to fly away.”

“It’s not worth it, 3.14. You know very well that’s not gonna happen. They’re locked into those tight little cages and they’re gonna die, either in the explosion or from inhaling the fumes of the fire.”

“You’re not gettin’ it, Comrade. This mission’s no joke. If it doesn’t happen today, when they’re all hammered, they’ll find the dynamite that we buried. They’re gonna see that the boxes are open, and they’re gonna put watchmen on the site. It has to be today!”

“And if Charlita doesn’t get the ‘hod drink’?”

“We’re gonna have to light the fuses.”

“There isn’t enough time.”

“Yes, there is. I looked at the wicks: they’re short. We’ll just light four of them. I take north and west, you take south and east.”

“There isn’t enough time, 3.14.” I felt really sad and frightened. “We’ll die from being dexploded. They won’t even be able to find our bodies to bury us.”

“Shut your trap. Listen carefully: there’s enough time, we just don’t run away in the direction of the houses. That’s what there’s not time for.”

“So?”

“We light the fuses and we run and dive into the sea. It’s the closest exit, and we stay under the foam so that the flames don’t get us.”

“Sure. Maybe Charlita will get the booze.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Events just kept happening. For me, it was too many things all in the same day.

A very polished jeep arrived at very high speed at the edge of the beach, circled around the square, then braked suddenly. Soldiers jumped out with AK-47s in their hands and did what in the movies is called “covering their positions.” It looked like a war zone.

The Russian soldiers, even in the midst of the chaos, stopped their arguments and they all stood at attention in a line. They looked like they were in the schoolyard and would start singing the national anthem at any moment. I laughed again.

“What you laughin’ about now?”

“I’m thinking what it would be like if somebody ordered those soldiers to sing our national anthem…Just imagine the accent and the lyrics they’d use!”

“Sure, it’d be pretty funny.”

Judging by the difference in his uniform and his walk, this must be the Boss General that Gudafterov was always talking about. The Soviet workers, including Dimitry and Gudafterov, saluted and took up positions at the back of the formation. As for the Angolans, they didn’t move.

“Go take a look, boys,” Dona Libânia shouted. “Otherwise, how are we going to know what’s going on?”

We set off running, trying to get close, but the soldiers with their AK-47s gave us terrifying looks. Sea Foam backed off too, and stood next to us and to the Comrade Gas Jockey.

“The highest rank of el poder has arrived.” Sea Foam saluted with his left hand to tease them.

The Boss General spoke in Russian in short, harshly expelled words that only the soldiers understood. Next he called on Comrade Gudafterov, who came forward with a tombstone face that was painful to see.

Foam was getting closer and closer to us, trying not to make a sound.

“Son, hand in this missive to that granma of yours who has fewer digits than other granmas.”

I thought he was joking or spouting nonsense, but he actually had a letter in his hand, and he was pointing it at me.

“Who, me?”

“The granma is yours and the letter is hers. Here, compañero , we do not make errores .”

Furtively, he handed me the letter, as though it were a secret.

“Are you writing letters to my granma, Foam?”

We were all staring straight ahead, as though we, too, were in formation, and we spoke in very low voices out of fear of being caught by the soldiers with AK-47s.

“I don’t write any more. ¡ Yo hablo !” he said in a loud voice. “The letter is from a certain Bilhardov, also known on Bishop’s Beach and the surrounding areas, as Comrade Armpitov. I have spoken!”

The very sweaty soldiers in the formation moved back a short distance, at an almost marching step, and let the Boss General pass. He went to speak with the Old Fisherman. We almost couldn’t hear them.

“Comrades, beach close for temporary, orders of Comrade President: Workers must finish Muzzleum verk. Your collaboration, please.”

“Lots of people work here every day, Comrade General. We need to go out on the sea. Some people still live on the other side of the beach.”

“Comrade President resolve all problem. Today beach close. Reasons of security. Muzzleum almost finish. Need make verk beach zone. Nobody hurt. Comrade President promise. Population must collaborate. Last varning: tomorrow nobody on beach, soldiers close everything fast! Gudafter-noon, Comrades!”

He didn’t go on trying to speak. Gudafterov went to open the main gate and the jeep entered the Mausoleum construction site. The soldiers in the jeep stayed at the gate to guard the entrance, and they ordered everyone to go away without putting up any more resistance.

“Time to come home, children,” Granma Nineteen said from the veranda. “It’s lunchtime and I don’t want you over there around those guns.”

Everybody cleared out. Senhor Tuarles, drenched in sweat, came over to say that the best thing would be for them to drink a few beers to freshen up and think up better ideas. Sea Foam ran into his house, the Comrade Gas Jockey leaned back his chair and set his hat at an angle that allowed his eyes to grow sleepy.

“After lunch you come here and tell the whole conversation,” Dona Libânia said. “You can eat slices of a banana cake that was left over from the party, but don’t tell anybody.”

“Sure, Dona Libânia.” 3.14 had a sweet tooth.

“Listen, Pi, do you think they’re gonna find the dynamite we put there?”

“No way. He’s just going there to bawl people out. He’s gonna find the soldiers drunk, he’s gonna give a couple of them a smack to make an example of them. You think the General’s not hungry? He must want to have lunch, too.”

“Let’s hope.”

“Hey, when you finish eating let’s meet out front here again. There could be more surprises.”

“I hope not.”

“Don’t forget to give the letter to your granma. Then you can tell me what’s in it. Imagine the mistakes in Armpitov’s writing!”

“Sure thing.”

I went to the bathroom to wash my hands, take off my shirt and wash my armpits, and wash my face with that soap that came with little crumbs trapped inside it, I don’t know why. It was very hot and the letter fell out of my waist where I had it hidden. I opened the letter. It was two pages long, written in a handwriting that was difficult to read. It seemed to have been written in haste; it was impossible to understand anything. But it was from him: it even had his signature — Bilhardov — at the end.

I stood still for a moment thinking. Words, the words that one person sometimes says to another person, at times they’re words that a person speaks without thinking, especially when they’re arguing, they just come out like that; at other times they’re words that a person spends a long time preparing, because they mean something to the other person, and can be said only with well-prepared words, and it’s not even always good to prepare words too much; at times talking at random or really fast summons up words that have more truth or force of conviction. That two-page letter, with words written in haste, yet thought out with a view to being read by my Granma Nineteen — what words would those be? Why had Gudafterov written such a long letter to my granma? Maybe he was coming by again with his conversation about the beauty of “snov,” and the forests and hearths of his cold country in the far-away; maybe he had even succeeded in writing a beautiful letter and — I had already seen this in the movies — women of any age like beautiful letters that make them cry.