Ondjaki: Granma Nineteen and the Soviet's Secret

“Death doesn’t like to wait for the rain,” Granma Catarina laughed.

The light came back on.

We were all looking at each other, each of us trying to see where the others had finally managed to find a seat. The girl cousins, hugging one another, pretended that they hadn’t been afraid. Granma Agnette released Madalena as though she had never pushed her, and the doorbell rang three times.

“You can open the door,” Granma Catarina said. “It’s just that dumb Soviet!”

It was Comrade Guderafterov’s ring, three times as always, with long pauses in between.

“Gran Nhéte, you can oben. It is me, Bilhardov. Very rain here.”

“Ten years he’s been here and he’s never learned Angolan Portuguese. These Soviets are a disgrace to linguistic socialism,” Granma Catarina said.

In the time it took him to come in the door, soaking, to squeeze Granma Agnette’s hand, we all sat down on the stairs like the audience at a movie matinée.

“Gudafter-noon, kildren.”

“Gudafter-noon, Kom-rad,” we imitated, and Granma made an ugly face.

Over in Comrade Gudafterov’s country it must be really cold because he had the bad habit of always wearing a big, warm coat that magnified his body odour, so that if the wind was blowing in the right direction, people always knew that he was about to arrive.

“Take off that coat, it looks like a bear. All it’s missing are claws and a raw fish in its mouth.” Granma Catarina was having fun.

Comrade Gudafterov laughed out loud. He looked at Granma Agnette, who didn’t know where to look. We weren’t going anywhere; we enjoyed these scenes as if they were a live soap opera.

“Gran have hod drink?”

“Tea?” Granma Agnette asked.

“He wants a take-out. Tell him this isn’t Senhor Tuarles’s bar.”

“Saw-ry?”

Comrade Gudafterov’s Angolan Portuguese was really very funny, but we’d succeeded in deciphering it. He said “saw-ry” to say “sorry” when he hadn’t understood something. “Kildren” was “children,” and he always liked to say, “Gudafter-noon”; that was one of his habits. I understand: sometimes a habit is like a torn old nightgown that a person likes because they like it and that they don’t want to stop wearing because it reminds them of something nice, or because it soothes their nostalgia for someone who’s not there.

“‘Saw-ry’ is a load of bull!” Granma Catarina said while Granma Agnette went to the kitchen.

The Soviet laughed. There were wrinkles in the corners of his eyes; this comrade must be old. His teeth didn’t have a good colour either — only his eyes. All the children knew this: only his eyes were pretty, of a blue that was lighter than that of the sky. We didn’t know whether over there in the Soviet Union everybody had eyes like that, or if it was just a family thing.

“Family live in far-away. Bilhardov have sadness.” He spoke as though we were all one person capable of conversing with him. “Family big, in cold, in snov. Angol very hod. Gud beer! Very dust.”

The cousins laughed and started whispering secrets in each other’s ears. Granma Agnette had already said that it was rude to speak in hushed voices in front of strangers, even if they were Soviets. Everybody was distracted, the water was boiling in the kitchen. Poor Comrade Gudafterov! They were only going to give him a cup of tea instead of the vodka he must be nostalgic for. Suddenly I felt bad. I swear I thought about this business of a person mixing different subjects, talking about his family, the “snov,” the dust of Bishop’s Beach, and his eyes growing shiny, which at times is a warning that tears can suddenly appear. I thought about all of that without telling anyone so they wouldn’t give me a hard time. I thought it must all be a sad yearning. Having his whole family living in the far-away couldn’t be easy for Comrade Gudafterov. Was that why he always tried to strike up a conversation with Granma Agnette?

Something else that I thought, and which made me want to smile, was that Comrade Gudafterov couldn’t even imagine that he was often mentioned in our after-lunch conversations with Granma Agnette.

She did it on purpose to make us take our nap after lunch. There was an instant’s chaos. We all went upstairs to Granma Agnette’s room, while we listened to the ruckus of Granma Catarina opening and closing windows, murmuring some little prayer in front of the mirror over her dresser, then she drew the curtains to fall asleep and began to snore.

“If you stop hearing me, come and wake me up,” Granma Catarina advised. “I’ll fall asleep again afterwards.”

Granma Agnette hugged each of the many grandchildren as we went into her room. I don’t know how we all managed to fit in that bed, even though it was a double; a bed wasn’t made to hold so many grandchildren all at once.

She sang the music of slow Fado tunes, adapted to put us to sleep, and nobody slept. She told crazy stories about her friend Carmen Fernández who had become pregnant, but had given birth to a huge bag of ants that bit the inside of her stomach. The second time she got pregnant she finally had a baby, but it had the head and wings of a bird and, as the window was open, it flew away and escaped. Granma said that Carmen Fernández was afraid of becoming pregnant a third time, but even then we didn’t fall asleep. Then Granma started with her threats.

“Nobody likes me.”

“That’s a lie, Granma. We like you.”

“Then everyone who likes me is going to fall asleep now.”

“No, Granma. We don’t want to sleep.”

“Then I’m going to accept the Soviet’s proposal.”

And the joke, which always started as a joke, even though we knew where this story was going, always left someone very sad or even crying.

“The what, Granma?”

“I’m going away to the far-away. The Soviet’s already said that he wants to take me to the far-away. And I’m going. No one will regret my absence.”

“Granma, don’t say that.” Someone would start crying.

“Granma’s going away to the cold, to stay there with the Soviet’s family.”

“But Granma, we like to have you here, you can’t go to the far-away…”

It was a strange joke, but it worked. In the middle of this conversation we, the grandchildren, became convinced that it was better to sleep a little than to endure the thought of Granma Agnette’s departure with the Soviet. It seemed like it took a long time to get over there to the far-away and it must be even more complicated to return from that place whose exact location nobody knew.

“You know verbena leaf?” Granma Agnette appeared with the teacup in her hand.

Comrade Gudafterov made a strange face, sniffed the tea and smiled the way we did when we were asked if the refried beans were good.

“Tankyou!”

Granma Agnette opened the window and saw that all of Bishop’s Beach was dark. But we had light.

“These house have electric light! Bilhardov connect to generator for Mausoleum. Gran Nhéte sleep gud. Direct connect to generator. Petromax nyet !”

The Soviet lifted the teacup to his mouth but didn’t drink. He just laughed, with his mouth and with his blue eyes that looked aquamarine.

“Drink the damned tea.” Granma Catarina continued looking at him, as she did with us when she was keeping track of the soup.

“Thank you, Comrade Bilhardov,” Granma Agnette said. “And the other houses, can’t they also have light from the generator?”

“Other house, other lady. These house very close to Mausoleum. Direct connect.”

“Listen here, tupariov, since you’re here for tea, which you’re not even drinking, just blowing on”—Granma Catarina was like that, she said anything she felt like—“is it true you’re going to explode our houses?”