“Old things aren’t very funny.”
“It depends, Pi. It depends.”
There was Dona Isabel with the AK-47 in her lap waiting, because at any moment Senhor Tuarles might make a sign for her to bring it to him. These were the things that 3.14 didn’t understand, but that made me laugh: after handing over the AK-47 to Senhor Tuarles, what Dona Isabel had to do, which was what Senhor Tuarles wanted Dona Isabel to do, was to stand there for a long time begging him not to use the AK-47, nor to threaten anyone, nor even to put a bullet in the magazine. And Senhor Tuarles always did the same thing, uttering the same sentence: “It’s all right, Isabel. You can put the AK-47 away.”
As Senhor Tuarles remained far away, getting worked up by the arguments and not making any sign, Dona Isabel went upstairs to put away the AK-47. We heard a feeble whistle coming from the old chicken coop. Charlita was calling us.
“Charlita, we’ve come to talk to you.”
“If my dad catches you…”
“It’s a last favour. The mission’s moving forward.”
“I don’t want to know about it.”
“Please, you don’t need to talk to us anymore. Just get a bottle of hot drink and leave it here on the wall. We’ll grab it from Granma Nineteen’s house.”
“Hot drink?”
“Yes, some drink like whisky or whatever.”
“How am I gonna know?”
“Open it and smell it. The strongest one is the one you want.”
“It can’t be rubbing alcohol?”
“I don’t think so because it’ll disappear before we set it alight.”
“What are you guys gonna set alight?”
“You said you didn’t want to know about it.”
“All right.” Her face grew pensive. “After nine o’clock I’ll leave it on the wall.”
“Okay. Affirmative.”
We heard voices singing really out-of-tune songs in Soviet which, even without understanding the lyrics, gave you a headache just to listen to them. We went to Granma Nineteen’s veranda, climbed up onto the wall and saw the drunken soldiers singing and drinking even more.
“That’s a really good sign. Let them keep on drinking.”
“I’m thinkin’ about something, 3.14.”
“Don’t start with your tales.”
“It’s not that. But we can’t blow everything up with people inside.”
“Listen, Comrade, it sounds like you ain’t understanding this business clearly. Today they’re going to close the beach, tomorrow they may start telling people to pack their bags, and the day after tomorrow, thanks to that dynamite you saw today, you may be imprisoned in that bathroom of your granma’s where you all hide from the lightning during thunderstorms.” 3.14 was speaking in a low voice, very close to my face. “Today those tupariovs are all drunk and nobody’s going to sleep at the construction site, and if somebody does spend the night there, well, too bad.”
“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!”
12
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.