— I don’t hear anything you say.
— Well, this time, you’re going to go on not hearing. I’m going to say everything, everything that I’ve had to keep buttoned up inside me. .
— I can’t hear anything—my father complained, looking at me.
— You were the opposite of a father. Parents give their children life. You sacrificed our lives for your madness.
— Did you want to live in that loathsome world?
— I wanted to live, Father. Just live. But it’s too late for questions now. .
— I know very well who’s put these ideas in your head. But tomorrow, this is going to end. . once and for all.
— Do you know something? For a long time I thought you had killed our mother. But now I know it was the other way round: it was she who killed you.
— Shut up or I’ll smash your face.
— You’re dead, Silvestre Vitalício. You stink of rottenness. Even that simpleton Zachary can’t stand the smell any more.
Silvestre Vitalício raised his arm and in a split second brought it down with a smack onto Ntunzi’s face. Blood spattered and I threw myself against my father. The struggle was complicated by the Portuguese woman, who appeared from nowhere to intervene. A clumsy dance of bodies and legs circled the room until the three of them fell to the floor in a tangle. They each got to their feet, shook themselves and smoothed their clothes. Marta was the first to speak:
— Careful now, no one here wants to hit a woman, isn’t that so, Mister Mateus Ventura?
For some time, Silvestre stood there, his movements suspended, arm raised above his head, as if some sudden paralysis had left him comatose. The Portuguese woman went over to him with motherly concern:
— Mateus. .
— I’ve told you before not to call me by that name.
— One can’t spend so much time forgetting. No journey is that long. .
We separated, unaware of the mishap that would occur during the night. The tires of Aproximado’s truck would be cut to shreds, reduced to the elastic of a catapult. The following morning, the vehicle would wake up paralysed, shoeless on the savannah’s scalding earth.
SECOND BATCH OF PAPERS
On a night of pale moon and geraniums
he’ll come, his prodigious mouth and hands,
to play his flute in my garden.
At the onset of my despair
I see but two ways to go:
To become insane or a saint.
I who eschew censure
what isn’t natural such as blood and veins
find I’m weeping each day,
my desolate hair,
my skin assailed by indecision.
When he comes, for it’s certain he will,
how will I enter the balcony shorn of youth?
The moon, the geraniums and he will be the same
— among all things, only a woman ages.
How will I open the window, if I’m not insane?
How will I close it, if I’m not a saint?
In Lisbon, when I announced that I was going to rescue my husband lost in Africa, my family abandoned its usual indifference. In the heat of the discussion, my father even went as far as to say:
— There’s only one way to describe these ravings, my dear daughter: they’re those of a jilted lover!
I was already weeping, but only noticed my tears at that point. My mother tried to keep the peace. But she reiterated her misgivings: “No one can save a marriage, only love can.”
— And who told you there’s no love?
— That’s even more serious: love is for whoever is beyond salvation.
The next day, I consulted the newspapers and scanned the classifieds. Before leaving for Africa, I had to make Africa come to me, in what is said to be the most African city in Europe. I would look for Marcelo without having to leave Lisbon. With that conviction, and with the paper opened at the classifieds, my finger paused on Professor Bambo Malunga. Next to the photograph of the soothsayer, his magic skills were listed: “He’ll bring back loved ones, find lost friends. . ” At the end, a note was added: “credit cards accepted.” In my case, perhaps it should have been a discredit card.
The following day, I walked down the narrow streets of Amadora carrying a bag full of the stuff stipulated in the ad: “A photo of the person, seven black candles, three white candles, a bottle of wine or spirits.”
The man who opened the door was almost a giant. His coloured tunic increased his bulk even more. I was uncertain about addressing him by his title when I introduced myself:
— I’m the one who phoned you yesterday, professor.
Bambo was from a part of Africa where the Portuguese hadn’t been, but he wasn’t put out: “Africans,” he said, “are all Bantu, all similar, they use the same subterfuges, the same witchcraft.” I pretended I believed him, as I walked past wooden statuettes and printed cloth wall-hangings. The apartment was cluttered and I took care not to tread on the zebra and leopard skins that covered the floor. They might be dead, but one shouldn’t step on animals.
Once he’d shown me to a little round stool, the soothsayer checked the things I’d brought and then noticed that I’d left something out:
— There’s no item of your husband’s clothing here. I told you yesterday on the phone that I needed a piece of his intimate clothing.
— Intimate? — I repeated blankly.
I smiled to myself. All Marcelo’s clothes were intimate, they had all brushed against his body, they had all been touched by my enraptured fingers.
— Come back tomorrow, lady, with all the materials required—the soothsayer suggested delicately.
Next day, I emptied Marcelo’s wardrobe into a holdall and walked through Lisbon carrying the bundle. I didn’t get as far as Amadora. Halfway, I stopped by the river and cast the clothes into the water as if I were emptying them onto the floor of the soothsayer’s consulting room. I stood there watching them float away, and suddenly, it seemed as if it were Marcelo adrift in the waters of the Tagus.
At that moment, I felt like a witch. First, clothes are an embrace that welcomes us when we are born. Later, we dress the dead as if they were leaving on a journey. Not even Professor Bambo could imagine my magic arts: Marcelo’s clothes floated like some prediction of our re-encounter. Somewhere on the continent of Africa, there was a river that would return my sweetheart to me.
I’ve just arrived in Africa and the place seems too vast to receive me. I’ve come to find someone. But ever since I got here, I’ve done nothing but get lost. Now that I’m settled in the hotel, I realize how tenuous my connection is with this new world: seven numbers scribbled on the back of a photograph. This number is the only bridge leading me to that other bridge I have to cross in order, perhaps, to find Marcelo. There are no friends, there are no acquaintances, there aren’t even any strangers. I’m alone, I’ve never been so alone. My fingers are only too aware of this solitude as they dial the number and then give up. Then, they dial again. Until a voice on the other end answers softly:
— Speaking?
The voice left me speechless, I was incapable of saying anything at all. My rival’s question was absurd: speaking? I hadn’t uttered so much as a word. It would have been more appropriate to ask: not speaking? Seconds later, the voice insisted: