— I’m fine, yes, it was just a momentary thing.
— That’s just as well, my dear Brother-in-law, because I’ve come to talk to you about something that certainly isn’t momentary.
— The way you put it, it can’t be something good. .
— As I already told you, I’ve been re-appointed to the Department for Fauna, but I now have new responsibilities. .
My father took his cigarette tin out of his pocket and started the long ritual of rolling tobacco. He looked up at the visitor once again:
— You’re where suits you best, Aproximado, working in a department for animals. .
— And it’s in this new role that I’ve come to give you notice of something you’re not going to like. My dear Silvestre, you’ve got to leave here.
— What do you mean leave here?
— A development project has been agreed upon for this area. The reserve has been privatized.
— I can’t speak this language. Explain it more clearly.
— The Department for Fauna has given this concession to foreign private investors. You’re going to have to leave.
— You must be joking. These private foreigners should come and talk to me when they get here.
— You’re going to have to leave before that.
— How funny: I was waiting for God to come to Jezoosalem. But in the end, it’s a bunch of private foreigners that are coming.
— That’s the way of the world. .
— Who knows, maybe the private foreigners are the new gods?
— Who knows?
— It’s strange how people change.
Silvestre reviewed developments so far: at first, Aproximado was almost his brother, all brother-in-lawish, they were all one family, full of mutual help and kindness. Then, this help began to be paid for and his comings and goings had become a business, with cash demanded up front. More recently, Aproximado had turned up with the jargon of a government functionary, to tell him that the State wanted him out of there. Now, there he was again, with a story about money, declaring that some nameless and faceless foreigners were the new owners.
— Don’t forget, Brother-in-law, there’s a world out there. And that world has changed. It’s globalization. .
— And what if I don’t leave? Will they force me out?
— No, certainly not. International donors are sensitive to human rights. There’s a resettlement plan for the local communities.
— So now I’m a local community?
— It’s much better like that, my dear Brother-in-law. It’s much better than being Silvestre Vitalício.
— In that case, if I’m a community, you’re no longer my Brother-in-law.
Silvestre rammed his point home, his finger erect, his voice abrupt: that his ex-brother-in-law, now state official, should be left in no doubt that only cattle can be re-settled. That he, Silvestre Vitalício, once known as Mateus Ventura, would die right there, next to the River Kokwana that he himself had baptized.
— Do you understand, Mister Official? And it’s my two sons here who’ll bury me. .
— Your sons? Your sons have decided they’re going with me. You’re going to be left on your own.
— Zachary won’t leave me. .
— I’ve spoken to Zachary, he’s also reached the end.
My old man raised his head, his gaze blank, brooding. I knew: he was delving into himself to find the ingredients of patience.
— Is that all the news you have, Brother-in-law?
— I have no more. Now, I’m going.
— Before you go, my friend, tell me something: what’s your name?
— What are you playing at, Silvestre?
— I’m going to show you something, my dear stranger. Don’t be offended if that’s what I call you, I’ve always preferred strangers to friends. .
While he was speaking, he got up, and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, he pulled out a bundle of notes, which he placed in a pile at his feet.
— I’ve always preferred friends to relatives. You now have the advantage of being a stranger.
He bent down and lit a match with his right hand, cupping it with his left.
— What are you doing, Silvestre? Are you crazy?
— I’m smoking your money.
— That money, Silvestre, is to pay me for your goods. .
— It was.
Incredulity etched into his face, Aproximado walked off and almost stumbled over me as he turned the corner. I remained motionless, peering at the veranda. From where I was I could see my old man sink back into his old armchair, sighing noisily and uttering the most unexpected words:
— Not long now, my little Alma. Not long now.
My skin was covered in goosebumps when I stalked off furtively, like a shadow among the bushes. Once I was at a safe distance, I ran as fast as I could.
— Who are you running from, Mwanito?
Zachary was sitting by the door of the ammunition store, his hand gripping his pistol as if he had just fired it.
I stopped immediately and sat down next to the soldier. I sensed that he wanted to tell me something. But he sat there for some time without saying a word, while he used the barrel of his gun to make drawings in the sand. I began to pay attention to the scribbling carved in the ground and suddenly, it dawned on me that Zachary was writing. And I was struck by the letters he had written: Dordalma.
— My mother?
— Don’t forget, kid: you can’t read. How did you do it? Did you guess?
I realized it was too late: Kalash was a hunter and I had stepped on the trap he had set.
— And I know more, kid. I know where you’ve hidden the papers you’ve been writing on.
It was now obvious that he would go and tell his boss and my father, Silvestre Vitalício. It wouldn’t be long before Ntunzi and I would both join the excommunicated.
— Have no fear. I’ve also lied because of some words and a few papers.
He erased my mother’s name with the sole of his foot. The grains of sand swallowed up the letters, one by one, as if the earth were once again devouring Dordalma. Then Zachary told me what had happened to him in his days as a commando in the colonial army. The mail would arrive and he was the only one never to get a letter. Zachary was always excluded, making him feel the burden of race: not the race determined by skin colour, but the race of those who are always denied joy.
— No woman ever wrote to me. For me, Jezoosalem started even before I got here. .
Half a dozen Portuguese soldiers, none of whom could read, had chosen him to decipher the letters they got from Portugal. His moment had come. He would sit on the top bunk in their sleeping quarters, while the whites would contemplate him as if he were some powerful prophet.
But this passing cause for vanity couldn’t match the ecstasy of those receiving the letters. Zachary’s envy knew no bounds. From the other side of the world came women, romance, comfort. Even the name of the letters made him feel jealous: “aerogramme.” For him, it sounded almost like the name of a bird. Then, he got the idea of passing himself off as a Portuguese. And that was how Zachary Kalash, through an unexpected switch of identity, got himself a godmother of war.