“What are you doing that for, Madalena?”
“None of your business.”
I didn’t know why, if it was a holiday or what, or if there was a workers’ assembly, but the Mausoleum construction site was practically empty. Charlita and 3.14 had offered the guard who was on duty leftover vodka from the toe’s farewell party, which was even mixed with wine. The guard was soon snoring over on the beach, curled up against Rainboat.
The main gate was open, but 3.14 figured that it was better for us to go in on the other side, where there was already a hole in the metal grating.
We ran with our hearts beating really fast, and I didn’t even really know what the plan was.
“The plan is that we find all of the dynamite.”
“And then?”
“Then we hide it and they can’t blow up Bishop’s Beach.”
We entered the storage shed that smelled of mould and heard the noise of hens clucking. We took the lid off one box, then a second one, and the incredibly skinny hens stood watching us as though we were obliged to give them corn.
“It must not be here.”
“Wait, there’s a ton of boxes, it could be in the others.”
“Hey, 3.14, you guys are draggin’ those boxes all over the place. Are you sure they won’t dexplode on their own?”
“Didn’t you ever see a Trinità movie? Dynamite only dexplodes when you light the fuzz.”
“The fuse, you retard.”
We opened more boxes and they contained tiny little cages that hardly left the creatures inside space to budge. We all looked at one another: there were pretty birds of colours a person doesn’t often even have in his crayon set, those purple colours mixed with dark blue or toasted yellow, lots of tiny little birds with colourful beaks and a heap — and I mean a heap — of parrots that said words in really difficult Soviet.
“Let’s split. It can’t be here.”
“And the birds?” Charlita stood looking at them.
“I’m not the birds’ godfather.”
“But aren’t they going to die here?”
“Let’s just go.” 3.14 pulled Charlita’s arm. “Birds can last for days without eating.”
“And without seeing any light?”
“They can last. Don’t you know that bats don’t even like to see the sun?”
“Bats are birds?”
“Come on! Let’s just go. You guys are screwing up the operation.”
We took off without closing the door. Charlita asked us to leave it like that, “so that at least they can get a breath of air.” We had to hide when we heard a noise nearby, but it was just a blue lobster peeing, and after he was done he left and went over to a huge tent where that assembly must be taking place.
We discovered that there was another entrance to the storage shed. On one side there were just the tools and clothing for the site, the workers’ monkey suits, demijohns of wine and bottles of vodka, helmets and a few Soviet guards’ uniforms. 3.14 found a pair of garden shears and started to cut up the sleeves of the tunics.
“What are you doing that for?” Charlita was really nervous.
“So they can get used to the fact that this is a hot country and not wander around all bundled up like they’re in the snow. Hahaha!”
We heard the sound of military boots and had just enough time to hide behind the tractor.
“We’re going to have to beat a retreat.”
“What are we going to beat it with?” Charlita wanted to know.
“You see? Your problem is that you don’t watch movies, and then you want to go on missions with boys.”
“Keep your voice down or they’re going to catch us.”
“You don’t know military codes, or what a ‘strategic retreat’ is.”
“Isn’t that just runnin’ away?”
“Yeah, but you have to say retreat. Beating a retreat.”
The soldiers were drunk and sat down right in the doorway of the storage shed. We were terrified when one of them leaned against the door and fell over backwards with the door wide open. The other laughed, and gave us time to see some suspicious boxes.
“The boxes with the dynamite!”
“How do you know?”
“It’s totally obvious that you don’t watch movies. They’ve got the symbol on the side.”
“What symbol?”
“The symbol for dynamite.”
“Draw it in the sand so I can see it.”
“It doesn’t work in the sand. We’re gonna have to split as soon as they fall asleep.”
We went out of the site through the hole in the metal grating. We took a turn on the beach so that nobody would be suspicious.
“Everything all right, kids?” It was the Old Fisherman.
“Everything all right, Elder. We just went to visit the blue lobsters.”
“That’s good. But don’t tell Granma.”
“Okay.”
We ran to the old chicken coop at Charlita’s house, where they had hidden the paint thinner. If there weren’t many people in the street there would still be time to complete the mission of blotting out the marks on the sidewalks.
As we were about to leave with the materials, Senhor Tuarles caught us.
“Good afternoon, kids. Are you playing here in Granma Maria’s chicken coop?”
“No, Dad, it’s just that…”
“Quiet, girl. I’m talking to the boys. Are you playing cowboys?”
Senhor Tuarles’s eyes were bloodshot, his mouth was mildly swollen. It was obvious that this wasn’t just from the beers that he liked to drink, even if it was after lunch; the heat at that time of day made a person’s body feel limp and swollen. We children didn’t feel this because we were always running.
“No, Senhor Tuarles, we just came for that can.”
“That can? A can of what?”
“It’s just a joke, Dad.”
“Quiet, daughter. Go inside and we’ll talk later. Are you playing in the street at this hour with the sun on your head?”
“We were just about to go look for hats, Senhor Tuarles,” I tried.
“You were going to look for hats in Granma Maria’s chicken coop?”
“No, Senhor Tuarles, we came here to the chicken coop to look for paint thinner.”
“Ah, so on top of everything else you’re playing with paint thinner after lunch?”
“Senhor Tuarles.” 3.14 was pretty gutsy at times. “If you prefer, we could only play with the paint thinner in the late afternoon.”
“Are you getting off on that shit or what?” Senhor Tuarles never had any trouble saying the craziest stuff and everybody knew that he had an AK-47 at home.
“No, Senhor Tuarles, we were just on a mission, like, eh.”
“‘Like, eh’? What kind of Portuguese are they teaching you at that school? Huh?”
“Sorry, Senhor Tuarles.”
“It looks like what you boys are in need of is a good thrashing…Isn’t that it?” His body stirred very slowly, as though his head were playing that tango from the military hospital. “Gimme that can, I’ll take care of the paint thinner.”
“But, Senhor Tuarles…”
“Do you want to be disobedient at this hour, in this heat? Hand me the comrade paint thinner. And not a peep, or I’ll go get my AK-47… Scat, the both of you!”
We fled. He stood laughing; but you never knew, at that time of day, with his body stumbling in a kind of slow dance and his eyes really red, whether he might not go get the AK-47 just to prove that he was telling the truth.
Without the paint thinner, we sat down on the sidewalk in front of Senhor Tuarles’s house and looked at the Comrade Gas Jockey, who was about to fall out of his chair from a long bout of failing to stay awake.
In Granma Nhé’s yard the parrots started to talk nonsense again. “Son of a snorer and a nuzzler”; the other shouted more loudly, “You’re an etcetera”: all in soap opera voices. Then we went into the old chicken coop and peeped out: there was Comrade Gudafterov hurrying out of the kitchen with bags of food in his hands, and the only person who was in the house was Madalena Kamussekele.