Ondjaki - Granma Nineteen and the Soviet's Secret

Time had decided it could pass.

And I stood still.

It wasn’t only the fingers or the toes, the legs or the head and eyes, that liked to look one way then the other. It was stillness itself. Within me. The voice that speaks within me had nothing to say, or else it wanted to practise a silence just like that.

Still from not thinking.

To feel the evening? To await a signal from the wind, a whistle like a segregated conversation taking account of the fact that the birds cried in a far-away and I could hear them? Wanting to hear mysterious sentences from Granma Catarina? Contemplating the things of Bishop’s Beach that I thought I alone saw?

Inventing minutes that were mine within the minutes of time?

Growing up with a heart and body that were fleeing from childhood? “Is someone running behind the child?” Granma Nineteen was in the habit of asking. Was time pursuing me with a body to frighten me? I felt the whole world there in the small square of Bishop’s Beach.

Nor did 3.14 say anything.

The two of us were still, imitating the ants when they stop for a tiny second to rest from their work, or the grasshopper stirring its body to get ready for a jump. Or the slug, still, lying on top of its spittle as though it could speak with the moon. Or sleeping fish.

“Don’t fish sleep even a little bit, Pi?”

“You should ask that crazy question of yours to the Old Fisherman. Did you ever see fish standing still with their eyes closed, almost throbbing with sleepiness?”

“I’ve heard it said that fish are really forgetful. It must be good to be like that.”

“Not remembering places and things? Forget it.”

“Aren’t there some things you’d like to forget?”

“I don’t think so. I like my life full of things that I can still tell to someone. If I have seven children, how am I going to have enough good tales to tell?”

“You want to have seven children?”

“I do.”

“Don’t worry about the tales. The tales that make the best stories are the ones we invent.”

“You think so?”

“I think so.”

Not even an eddy of dust to divert the eyes. It seemed like nothing wanted to happen.

“Are we just gonna stand here?”

“Yeah.”

“Doing what?”

“Just sitting. ‘Watching the time go by,’ as the elders say.”

“It’s really dark on Bishop’s Beach. I don’t know if time’s going to want to pass by here.”

3.14 drew an arrow in the sand, pointing in the direction of Granma Nineteen’s house. Then a heart and two well-drawn figurines.

“If Gudafterov is slow off the mark with your granma, I figure the Socialist Republic of Cuba is going to make some forward strides.”

I looked at the veranda. The two of them looked very calm as they conversed, and I really enjoyed seeing Granma Nineteen with that smile that I could only guess at because I was unable to see their faces.

“I don’t like that conversation.”

“But Gudafterov already invited your granma to go with him there to the far-away, right?”

“What do I know? It could just be some tale of my granma’s.”

“But if the muchacho doctor invites her, well excuse me, but Cuba is a lot better.”

“What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything, but Cuba’s got sun, beaches and pretty mulattas, I saw it all on television. Do you want to compare that with snow, frozen water that turns into ice and whitish women with minuscule boobs?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

I thought I heard something in the yard.

“Did you hear something?”

“Nothing. What?”

“Hold it.”

Something, yes, close to the wall that divided Senhor Tuarles’s house from Granma Nineteen’s house.

“The parrots?”

“What kind of parrot’s that? It’s Charlita.”

We ran forward, then went in stealthily along the side of the veranda so that Granma wouldn’t call us. The yard was dark. The parrot His Name shouted out to expose us: “Down with American imperialism.” We made an effort not to laugh: the words came from a television commercial that hadn’t run in a long time. Just Parrot finished off: “Hey, Reagan, hands off Angola.”

We passed beneath the fig tree. Where the wall was lowest, we met up with Charlita.

“How come you guys don’t pay any attention? I’ve been here, like, forever, and those parrots did everything but call out my name.”

“You’re ahead of schedule, Comrade.”

“My dad fell asleep in the living room watching the news in African languages. It’s now or never. Here’s the stuff.”

“Wonderful Comrade Charlita!”

She passed over a nearly full bottle of whisky with a really piercing aroma that looked good for the mission.

“You figure it’ll do?”

“It should,” 3.14 said, sniffing it and closing it again. “I’m going to recommend to Comrade Gudafterov that you be decorated.”

“I’m going to be what?” In addition to her poor sight, I’m not sure if Charlita heard very well.

“Decorated. You may receive a medal to show the gratitude of the community of Bishop’s Beach.” He laughed.

“But is it gratitude, or is it a gratuity?”

“Stop that, we’ve got to get out of here.”

Charlita’s voice trembled. “Good luck,” she said, almost as though we were heading for the war zone at any moment.

“Thank you, Comrade. Long live the revolution!”

“Tupariov,” she joked.

Charlita disappeared and then tripped on something that couldn’t be anything important because the old chicken coop was completely empty.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just go.”

We ran away, passing close to the water tank. The parrots continued to be restless. I dipped my hand in a pool of leftover dirty, soapy water.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s to make the parrots calm down.”

I sprinkled their cage twice with the water. It was what Madalena did; they put their troubles behind them with drops of that leftover blue-soap water. They licked their bodies and remained still, saying nothing.

“Those parrots have a screw loose.” 3.14 didn’t know about this method of silencing parrots.

“Let’s just get going.”

“And your granma on the veranda?”

“Before we get to the veranda, we’ll jump over into Senhor Tuarles’s yard. We’ll go out the other side.”

“What if she calls you?”

“Too bad. We’ve got the bottle now, we have to get going.”

“What about dinner? My dad’s gonna give me a thrashing.”

“Too bad,” I laughed. “That’s your problem. Charlita moved the mission forward, now there’s no dinner for anybody. Draw courage from your hunger.”

“Okay. We’ll move ahead. Liquid ready?”

“Affirmative.”

“Matches?”

“I don’t know. Do you have them?”

“I have them. Dynamite in position?”

“Affirmative.”

“Forward, Comrade.”

We leapt, deliberately so as not to make noise, and in the right places. In spite of the darkness, we knew all the pitfalls of the houses on Bishop’s Beach, and with the two of us together it was practically impossible to put a foot wrong. “Careful with those bricks next to Senhor Tuarles’s abandoned car,” I warned, and we circumvented them. “Lift the gate or it’s going to make noise.” We got out without anyone seeing us.

“Should we crawl until we get to the entrance to the alley, going past your granma’s sidewalk, or are we going to be intercepted?”

“It’s better not to. The problem is that Dona Libânia has secret techniques for seeing and hearing, and at this time of night she could tell on us for skipping dinner or something.”